The Trouble with Jack
by custardpringle
Summary: Sequel to The Trouble with Teal'c. Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty. [COMPLETE!]
1. Inspiration

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, drama  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: Minor reference to "Heroes 1."  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've been thinking for a while that "The Trouble with Teal'c" needed a sequel. So here it is. Much more demented (I hope). This starts about five minutes after the end of the other story.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Only on duty a couple hours, and he'd already been run down in the corridors "accidentally" three times. What a life.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with this place?" Siler muttered to himself. The words echoed weirdly in the SGC's vast network of ventilation ducts. "There's always something going wrong. And somehow, I'm the only one who can ever fix it. Don't know why I put up with this, getting crashed into twenty times a day by people who think their jobs are more important than mine. I've been out for the last two weeks, for Chrissake, because they set me on fire. Can't they go easy on me for once?"  
  
Of course not.  
  
"And then," he added, not caring who might be listening, "they steal Arnold. Can't even leave in innocent stapler in peace, can they?"  
  
-----  
  
"They," in this case, actually referred specifically to Colonel O'Neill, who had walked into the Siler's closet (it was nowhere near big enough to be called an office) about half an hour ago to report that the ventilators were making an odd noise. Chirping, he had called it.  
  
"Chirping?" the Sergeant had repeated dubiously. "Sounds more like there's an animal or something in there, not a mechanical problem."  
  
O'Neill considered this option for a moment, picking up a stapler from the desk and absently whacking it repeatedly into his palm. Siler flinched, but kept himself silent with an effort. "Could you check it out anyway?" the Colonel ultimately decided. "I really think you're the best person to deal with the problem, whatever it is."  
  
With that, he had left, leaving no more room for argument.  
  
"Oh, wonderful, Arnold," Siler had said aloud the instant the door closed. "Miles of ventilation ducts in this place, and he wants me to personally crawl through all of them . . . Arnold?"  
  
Arnold the stapler was not, in fact, there. Colonel O'Neill had taken him with him when he left.  
  
-----  
  
"He took my goddamned stapler," Siler repeated to himself in fresh disbelief.  
  
He was startled out of his thoughts by the appearance of a vent grille just ahead. He thought he heard some squeaking sounds coming from near it. Maybe this was the source of the problem.  
  
Arriving at the grille, Siler looked through and saw Dr. Daniel Jackson's office outside. This was, in fact, the origin of the sound he had heard; Jackson was rummaging determinedly through all his desk drawers, some of which creaked terribly.  
  
On a malicious whim, the sergeant opened the vent, stuck his head out and called, "Hello, Doctor Jackson!" Siler was immensely gratified to see the archaeologist jump in fright and nearly drop what looked like an extremely valuable paperweight.  
  
Jackson looked around, saw him in the duct, and smiled nervously. "Oh, hi, Sergeant . . . I don't suppose you've seen my stapler anywhere? I seem to have lost it."  
  
"No, I'm sorry," Siler said, feigning regret but smiling inwardly to hear that he was not alone in his plight. "Have you heard anything odd? Colonel O'Neill reported odd noises coming from his vent—like chirping, he said."  
  
"Actually," Daniel said thoughtfully, "I did, just a few minutes ago. But I thought I was imagining it. Aftereffect of the tribbles, you know?"  
  
"There were tribbles?" Something was indeed very wrong with this place, Siler thought. Tribbles, of all things.  
  
"Oh, sorry. I forgot, you missed the fun," Jackson explained. "Teal'c brought one back by mistake and, by the time we found out, they had spread all over the base. It took a week to get them all out. So I figured I was imagining it since I'd been listening to chirping all week."  
  
Siler nodded understandingly. "I'd better check it out, though. Thank you, Doctor Jackson."  
  
Later on, just as he was heading back to his closet in despair, he heard something again. And this was undoubtedly the chirp of a hungry tribble. Within a few minutes, the sergeant had found the creature and lovingly picked it up.  
  
Stroking the tribble , Siler grinned widely. "Tribbles . . . wow." A longtime Star Trek fan, he knew only too well the sort of devastation the things could cause. And if he could get this one to breed, which shouldn't be too hard . . . that could be useful.  
  
Very useful indeed.  
  
"Hang on, Arnold," Siler said aloud. "I'll get you back. I promise." 


	2. Scheming

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, drama  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! People like this! I feel so warm and fuzzy now!  
  
On the same note: Dammit, why isn't it summer yet? I never thought I could possibly hate turtlenecks as much as I do right now.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Jack smiled at the mound of overdue paperwork that completely buried his desk. Normally, the sight would have filled him with dread, as it would have done to any sane person. And he was about the sanest person he knew. This time, though, it instead inspired a feeling of immense satisfaction. Of course, being sane, Jack would have preferred by far to have not had the paperwork at all. This case, however, was without a doubt the lesser of two evils. He'd have to do the work eventually, no matter how trivial it might seem.  
  
Jack often liked to think of himself as fighting a war against the never- ending stream of paper that drowned his desk. The war had been at a deadlock for as long as he could remember. But now, just when things had seemed to be taking a turn for the worse, he had found himself a new weapon—thanks to the generosity of Carter, Daniel, and Siler, among others.  
  
Ah, yes, Siler. The sergeant's contribution was still in a pocket, along with Carter's; she'd found it a while ago, but failed to anticipate the efficiency with which Jack would reclaim what was now his property. (Thank goodness for that black ops training.)  
  
Jack reached down and unfastened the three separate locks on his bottom desk drawer; he'd made sure to install them after Carter picked the old one. Gently, almost reverently, he withdrew his two newest conquests from his pants pocket and placed them tenderly inside the drawer along with over a dozen comrades.  
  
Satisfied, Jack stroked his collection lovingly for a minute, not even looking around at the odd noises coming momentarily from the ventilator behind him.  
  
Suddenly, he snatched one back up with a frown. It was bright red, a characteristic which made him particularly happy, but its underside had something attached to it. A small sticker, he now saw, which read, "Hi! My name is ARNOLD."  
  
Jack wrinkled his nose in disdain. Nobody on base was named Arnold—at least nobody he knew—which meant that that had to be the stapler's name. Whose was this? Siler's? He didn't know the man all that well, but he'd never have expected him to be so frivolous. One thing was for sure, though: there was no way in hell any stapler of Jack's was going to have a name, especially not one like "Arnold." He carefully stripped the sticker off, making certain that not even a trace of glue remained.  
  
Then he turned back to the mass of paper spilling over the sides of the desk, grimly clutching his newly acquired implement of adhesion.  
  
In the never-ending fight against red tape, these staplers were the only allies Jack O'Neill had. He just hoped they were up to the monumental task ahead.  
  
-----  
  
Controlled tribble breeding was a concept Siler had invented. He was immensely proud of it.  
  
Unfortunately for his pride, it was also one of the biggest oxymorons imaginable.  
  
Siler knew that it should be possible, with absolutely regimented diet. He did not, however, know what that diet should be, and there was no way he could ask anyone for help on the subject. He'd been hoping to have only two or three of the creatures and let them wreak some havoc in Colonel O'Neill's office. Presumably, the officer would then have seen sense and returned Arnold to his rightful place. But there were already at least half a dozen wandering around Siler's closet now, and he suspected more might be showing up soon. They were just so damn hard to count.  
  
This called for a new plan, something a bit more ambitious. Siler wasn't going to be able to settle just for the tribbles eating some files—an event the colonel would probably welcome in any case. No, that definitely wouldn't be enough. What Siler needed was something worse, something that would make his point absolutely clear.  
  
Especially after what he'd seen just a couple of hours ago. Siler had been crawling back through the ventilation system to his closet, clutching his precious discovery, and had passed O'Neill's office on the way. A quick glance had confirmed his worst fears: the colonel had a desk drawer open and was in the process of placing Arnold inside. Worst of all, there had been many other staplers in there as well—probably including Doctor Jackson's, come to think of it.  
  
It was totally beyond Siler's comprehension how anyone could be so cruel as to lock that many staplers in a dark drawer for hours on end. He could only imagine the distress Arnold must be in right now.  
  
There was no doubt about it. Colonel O'Neill was going to pay for this, and dearly.  
  
Of course, that depended on Siler being able to get these tribbles under control first. 


	3. Revelation

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, drama  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none, thank goodness. (See, Jess, the Commandments remain intact for the nonce.)  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry this took so long. It actually takes me only an hour or two to write each chapter (much easier than my usual angsty stuff). It's getting around to it that's the problem.  
  
Besides, I cut myself shaving shortly after my last post and it took me a week to stop the bleeding. No, seriously.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Sam had just resolved that the phrase of the day would be "bloody hell." She couldn't think of anything much more appropriate to her current predicament.  
  
If Colonel O'Neill hadn't been a superior officer, she would already have been on the way to his office, fully intending to leave him with a collection of bruises rivaling the one he already had of stolen office equipment. As it was, though, she would have to settle for telling him off thoroughly. Very, very thoroughly.  
  
And the many unfortunate people she was efficiently bowling over in the hallways were more than able to testify to exactly how pissed off she was.  
  
Her stapler was gone—again. And this time there was no ambiguity whatsoever about what had happened to it. He had stolen it back—picked the lock on her desk, no doubt. And now that she actually had something substantial to report on (in sharp contrast to the fiasco their last mission had become), something actually important for once, she couldn't. Because she had no way to fasten it together.  
  
There were only two ways this could possibly end, Sam decided. One was ugly. And the other one was very ugly indeed.  
  
She was so intent on getting where she was going that when she ran into Sergeant Siler, who was carrying a biological specimen case, and knocked him head over heels—the third time it had happened to him that day—Sam never even noticed the furious look he sent in her direction as he picked himself up.  
  
It was soon replaced, though, by a smile—but one just as ugly as his previous scowl—as he placed a checkmark on his mental list.  
  
Major Samantha Carter would be victim number two.  
  
-----  
  
Sam was nearly at a run by the time she halted in front of Daniel's door and stormed in without even knocking, let alone waiting to be invited in. He looked up, started to say something, and snapped his mouth shut again upon seeing the look on her face, settling instead for hoping that he would not bear the brunt of her wrath.  
  
"Look at this," Sam growled, holding up a half-inch long strip of staples.  
  
Daniel blinked up at her in utter confusion. "Did you have a point you wanted to make?"  
  
"Colonel O'Neill took my stapler," Sam fumed.  
  
"Thought that happened about a week ago."  
  
"It did. And then—" she gritted her teeth—"I went and got it back from his office. Now it's gone again. This is all I've got left."  
  
"Well," Daniel offered cautiously, "if it makes you feel any better, I think he took mine too."  
  
Sam nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised. There were a bunch of others in the drawer with mine. Didn't recognize them, though."  
  
"So why exactly did you come to me?" he asked. "Did you think I might have it?"  
  
"Nah." Sam broke into a savage grin. "I just need someone there to keep me out of a court-martial for assault of a superior officer."  
  
"Sounds like fun," Daniel decided, getting up and navigating gingerly around several enormous mounds of paper to join her. "If worst comes to worst, I can always assault him for you. Let's go."  
  
-----  
  
Five minutes later, they were knocking vigorously at the door of Jack's office. When it became evident he was either absent or refusing to answer, Sam heaved a sigh. "You know, Daniel," she said regretfully, "I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this." With that, she whipped a key card out of her pocket and skimmed it through the reader on the wall. A click and a beep sounded, and the door swung open without further protest, revealing an otherwise empty office.  
  
Daniel stared at her as they walked in. "Do I even want to know why you have a key to Jack's office?"  
  
"Probably not . . . wow. Take a look at his desk."  
  
Far from its usual clutter, Jack's desk was now occupied by a single neat stack, towering several feet in height, of completed paperwork of all sorts: mission reports dating back as far as four years, requisition forms, and even answered memos. (Several members of this last category were old enough to be addressed from General West rather than Hammond.)  
  
"Oh, shit," Daniel said in awe. "This cannot be good."  
  
"Looks like we've got another potential victim for Mackenzie," Sam agreed.  
  
"And here's the weapon," he told her grimly, passing over a bright red stapler that had been placed neatly behind the mountain of paper. "It's not mine, though."  
  
Sam examined it briefly and determined it was wholly depleted. "Nor mine," she said sadly.  
  
"Bottom drawer's locked three times over," Daniel reported, tugging at the handle in vain. "Don't suppose you've got keys to all these as well?"  
  
"Not to my knowledge." She leaned over to examine the offending mechanisms.  
  
"Hey, kids," a cheerful voice said from the doorway.  
  
Chagrined, Daniel and Sam fell silent.  
  
Jack's tone hardened. "Now just what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" 


	4. Freedom

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, drama  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none, thank goodness. (See, Jess, the Commandments remain intact for the nonce.)  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm enjoying this story far more than can possibly be healthy.  
  
And no, I'm not trying to imply anything negative about Jack's mental health. Really.  
  
BTW: I'm now on spring break. Which means I'm going to be posting out the wazoo, and may even have this story done within the next week. A sequel to "The Lost Ones" (a story you, Zork, no doubt avoided like the plague, not that I blame you) should be appearing soon after that.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Daniel smiled disarmingly, mentally calculating the odds that he and Sam could successfully get past Jack—and Teal'c, he now saw—and out the door without being severely maimed in the process. They weren't good. "Ummm . . . looking for snacks?"  
  
-----  
  
Over the past couple of days, Siler had found it more and more difficult to get into his closet. By now, it was practically impossible. In order to get himself in without releasing the swarm of creatures inside, he had to crack the door open, slip inside, and shove it shut as fast as humanly possible. On this occasion, though, he was far less displeased about it than he might have been.  
  
"Hello there," he said happily, and was rewarded with cheerful chirping in response from what now amounted to nearly two hundred tribbles, and would have been more had he not stopped feeding them entirely. "Guess what, you guys. You're finally getting out of here."  
  
The tribbles seemed to crowd closer hopefully.  
  
Siler rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "Let's see, now. This is going to take a while. I'll need a couple of volunteers to start with, all right?"  
  
Having no way to tell which of the tribbles actually were volunteering, he grabbed a few at random and stuffed them into the transport case he'd brought with him. Carefully navigating across the cramped space, Siler yanked the grille from the ventilation tube, hefted the case up to it, and pulled himself in behind it, replacing the grille behind him to prevent any of the others from getting out just yet. "I'll be right back," he promised. "Most of you should be getting out of here today . . . the rest will be free soon."  
  
The tribbles were much lighter than Siler had anticipated, and it took surprisingly little time before he and the large transport case arrived outside O'Neill's office. However, when he peered cautiously out of the tube, it became obvious that there would be quite a wait before he could execute his plan. Not only was O'Neill there, but the rest of his team was with him as well.  
  
Siler and his tribbles settled themselves down for a good long wait.  
  
-----  
  
"Looking for snacks," Jack repeated disbelievingly, folding his arms across his chest. "Tell me something, T. Have you ever known Daniel to be looking for snacks in my office, rather than the other way around?"  
  
"I have not," Teal'c agreed readily. "Nor have I ever known Major Carter to resort anywhere other than the commissary for snack food."  
  
"Oh, come on, Teal'c," Sam argued indignantly. "Do you really think I'm that honest?"  
  
Teal'c considered this for a minute. "I have found on several occasions that the stores of food in my quarters were mysteriously depleted. However, I was under the impression that O'Neill was responsible."  
  
"Me?" Jack shook his head. "I only steal food from Daniel. Which brings us to the original question of what you two are doing in here in the first place, now we've established that you're not actually looking for food."  
  
"Fine," Daniel raised his hands in surrender and prepared to do the best job of lying he possibly could. "We were passing by and noticed your door was open. I was going to close it for you when Sam noticed that all your paperwork was done. So we figured there was probably a gnome or something hidden under the desk, and decided to hunt it down before it did something more destructive."  
  
"A gnome?" Teal'c arched an eyebrow in confusion.  
  
"A midget," Jack explained tersely. "Believe it or not—wipe that smirk off your face, Major—I actually do my own paperwork once in a while. Is that really so hard to accept?"  
  
"Considering your previous track record, sir," Sam answered, "yes, I'd say it is."  
  
"Fine, be that way." Jack heaved a sigh. "So long as you aren't trying to plant a bomb in here or anything like that."  
  
Siler drew forward silently in the shaft, sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close, and caught a hastily suppressed flicker of glee crossing Sam's face as she contemplated the aftermath of planting a bomb in her commanding officer's desk.  
  
"If Major Carter and Daniel Jackson are so hungry," Teal'c observed with the straightest face imaginable, "perhaps they would find it preferable to accompany us to the commissary, where food is far more likely to be available."  
  
"Sounds like a plan, Teal'c." Sam let out a sigh of relief so faint that only Daniel heard it. "Lead the way."  
  
"Wonderful," Jack said plaintively, even as they walked out of the office and he closed the door behind him. "I can't even remember why I came here in the first place. I'm telling ya, you two are making me old before my time."  
  
Siler listened carefully for a minute, making sure the room was definitely abandoned, and then slid out of the ventilator shaft, pulling the case of tribbles after him to make sure it didn't fall.  
  
Once safely inside, he looked around the otherwise deserted office with satisfaction. "Just got organized, hey, Jack?" He chuckled softly at this secret show of insubordination. "Hope you enjoyed it while it lasted."  
  
The sergeant bent down and clicked the latch of the transport case open. 


	5. Action

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language and evilness by a red shirt (gasp!)  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, suspense  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: minor for "Heroes 1," again.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Did I say this would be done soon? I think I lied . . . because I'm improvising the plotline as I go along, and thus confusing the heck out of myself.  
  
I think this chapter is a bit shorter than usual. Sorry if that makes anyone sad, I just couldn't stretch it out any further. The rare treat of plot advancement should compensate, however.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Three trips, four, five . . . Siler lost count somewhere around twenty. Crawling back and forth between O'Neill's office and his own, no matter how easy it had seemed at first, quickly became tedious as hell. Even the highly amusing mental image of the rewards he'd reap in the end could only sustain him for so long. Finally he resorted to remembering what O'Neill had done to Arnold, and the anger this stirred up was more than sufficient to keep Siler going until nearly all the tribbles had been moved and the remainder safely penned away for possible future use. The transport case he left, quite intentionally, on top of the desk; he could only hope it wouldn't be buried by the time he needed it to be seen.  
  
As it turned out, the task took nearly fifty round trips through the ventilators. Siler had never been even remotely claustrophobic, but he suspected he was on the verge of it right now. There was nothing he wanted more at the moment than to get as far away from the mountain as humanly possible, preferably to the biggest, emptiest place he could find.  
  
As a matter of fact, just floating in outer space, with or without a suit, was sounding pretty good right about then.  
  
But he couldn't do that—at least not yet, anyway. First he had to finish dealing with the tribble infestation that had just, well, mysteriously appeared out of nowhere in Colonel O'Neill's office.  
  
Arnold would be freed very, very soon now.  
  
-----  
  
Siler made his way to the corridor just outside the commissary and peered warily around the corner. His timing was perfect—SG-1 was just leaving. O'Neill's voice carried clearly. "I've gotta go see Hammond about something. I'll catch up with you later, kids." Siler grinned widely—things couldn't be more perfect. He wondered idly whether General Hammond would have the sense to hide his stapler before O'Neill got there.  
  
He waited until Jackson (who was, at least for now, safe, being the only one who had actually noticed Siler's absence) had also gone his own way, and then pounced swiftly on his target. "Major Carter!"  
  
Carter and Teal'c both stopped and turned around immediately. She gave him a brief nod of greeting, and then frowned at the serious expression he'd forced onto his face. "Is there a problem, Sergeant?"  
  
"Not really, sir." He laughed nervously—the nerves, at least, were genuine. "It's just that I found something rather, um, unusual in Colonel O'Neill's office, and I thought you might like to have a look."  
  
"In that case," Teal'c pointed out, "would it not be better to inform O'Neill himself?"  
  
"Yes, but," Siler improvised, "I heard him say he had to go somewhere else, so I thought you could deal with it more quickly. Sir," he added hastily, having nearly forgotten to maintain at least a semblance of subordination to her.  
  
"Just what kind of 'unusual' thing are we talking about here, anyway?" Carter asked.  
  
He shrugged. "I honestly don't know, sir. That's why I'm asking you." Damn. He hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.  
  
Fortunately, Carter either didn't notice or didn't care, although she still looked rather dubious. "All right, Sergeant. Lead the way."  
  
"I will accompany you, Major Carter," Teal'c said instantly. "Further assistance may be required in eradication of the problem, whatever it may be."  
  
Siler worried about this temporarily as they headed back towards O'Neill's office—he hadn't planned on Teal'c coming along. On second thought, though, it might be a good thing. After all, Teal'c had done his own fair share of bowling over throughout the past six and a half years. Come to think of it, it had been he who had set Siler on fire three weeks ago. (Testing a new safety vest? Yeah, right. Siler knew for a fact that at least half the personnel in the SGC were closet pyros.)  
  
Also, he'd heard that the tribbles had gotten on base in the first place thanks to Teal'c, although he didn't know why.  
  
No, Teal'c's presence wasn't going to be a problem. Not a problem at all.  
  
-----  
  
Siler had made certain to leave the door of the office securely shut but unlocked, so it was easy for him to let Teal'c and Major Carter in when they arrived. Rather than follow them in, though, he quickly shut the door again behind them, swiftly drew a zat from one of his many voluminous pockets, and fired it three times at the electronic lock. The mechanism didn't vaporize at the third shot, as a person would have, but it did fuse together, sealing the door shut.  
  
Siler shoved the weapon back into its pocket and chuckled joyfully. If his luck held, he was going to be having a lot of fun very soon. 


	6. Suspicion

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language and evilness by a red shirt (gasp!)  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, suspense  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Despite outward appearances, this story still has no plot, at least as far as I can tell. Feel free to cast votes for who you want to "win" (i.e. Jack or Siler).  
  
BTW: The naquadriah actually is important. (But not until the next story.)  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Sam whirled around and looked at the closed door in bewilderment. A quick experiment showed that it was locked fast. "What the hell is he doing?" she said angrily.  
  
"It cannot be anything agreeable," Teal'c said gravely. "Major Carter, there is indeed something very unusual here."  
  
"And that would be . . ." Sam turned back around to face the rest of the room. "Oh, crap." It was rather difficult to miss the enormous mound of fur taking up most of the office. The neat stack of paperwork that had previously occupied the desk had, unsurprisingly, disappeared.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Sam checked the wall again, and let out a sigh of relief—at least the phone was still accessible. She reached over and snatched it off the hook, pressing the button that would connect her directly to Hammond's office. "Major Carter here. Sir, this may sound a little crazy . . . but we have a foothold situation in Colonel O'Neill's office."  
  
"I need details, Major," Hammond said sharply.  
  
"Apparently," Sam told him, "we missed a tribble or two last week. This room is full of them now."  
  
Hammond swore softly. "All right, I'll need you in my office right away to come up with a plan to deal with this. We need to be certain they haven't spread into other parts of the mountain."  
  
Seeing Sam's steadily mounting frustration, Teal'c took the phone and answered for her. "General Hammond, we may have some difficulty in meeting with you as you recommend."  
  
-----  
  
"Damn Kelownans," Jack growled to himself as he wandered into Daniel's office. "Can't even make a simple naquadriah delivery without messing it up, can they?"  
  
He looked up to see Daniel standing right in front of him, looking considerably disgruntled. "Jack, what have you done with my stapler?"  
  
"Daniel . . ." Jack spread his hands wide. "I did not steal your stapler. What on earth would make you think that?"  
  
"Hmm, let's take a second and work it out." Daniel screwed his face up in mock contemplation. "Maybe because I know about half a dozen other people on base who are also missing their staplers?"  
  
"All right, fine. So people are careless with their office equipment. So what does that have to do with me?"  
  
"Oh, but it does." Daniel smiled triumphantly. "Because they all told me that, the last time they saw the things, you were messing around with them. And don't come near my desk."  
  
"Oh, fer cryin' out loud . . . So I'm fidgety too," Jack conceded reluctantly, stepping back a pace from the forbidden territory. "But we knew that already. Besides, that doesn't apply to you, does it?"  
  
"Technically, no," Daniel admitted.  
  
"Thank you!" said Jack in obvious relief. "I appreciate your faith in me."  
  
Daniel ignored him. "I said, technically no. I do remember that the last time I saw it was right before you somehow managed to get trapped in here by a swarm of 'rabid tribbles' despite the fact that tribbles are immune to rabies."  
  
"Hey," Jack objected, hoping for a change in subject, "I'm getting old. I'm allowed to exaggerate just a little bit."  
  
"And I haven't seen it since," Daniel finished, pointedly continuing to ignore his friend's protests.  
  
Before Jack could formulate a new defensive strategy, a merciful distraction came in the form of a shrill telephone ring. Daniel, who was closer to the instrument, grabbed it. "Jackson . . . yeah, he's right here." He passed the receiver over. "Sam wants to talk to you. She doesn't sound very happy about it, either."  
  
"Great, more fans," Jack muttered. The smug look on Daniel's face worried him. "Carter? Did you want something?"  
  
"Well, colonel," Sam said (wow, she did sound pissed), "Teal'c and I were wondering if you happened to have an escape hatch in your office. We're stuck in here—the door's been sealed shut somehow."  
  
"Ventilator shaft," Jack said automatically, having made use of it many times himself.  
  
"Not an option, sir. We're cut off from that part of the room."  
  
"Cut off," Jack repeated in disbelief. "It's called a desk, Carter. You walk around it."  
  
A long-suffering sigh echoed over the line. "Daniel didn't tell you?"  
  
"Tell me what?" Jack shot a glare across the room. "Daniel . . ."  
  
The person in question was slowly backing away, doing his absolute best (and failing) to look innocent. "What?"  
  
Jack pointed a finger at him warningly. "Watch it, buster. You still with us, Carter?"  
  
"I'm still here, sir," she assured him. "But so are a couple hundred tribbles."  
  
"Aw, crap. I thought we got rid of those things already."  
  
"Apparently not," Sam said. "General Hammond wants to see you right away."  
  
"And I just got out of there, dammit. Don't worry, Carter, we'll deal with this somehow. Give my regards to Teal'c while you're waiting."  
  
"Will do, sir. Thanks." She hung up, and Jack did the same.  
  
Turning around, he discovered that Daniel had disappeared. No matter—he could be dealt with later. Jack decided he'd better go right away in case Hammond too was angry with him, and consoled himself by formulating complex revenge schemes against whomever he might be able to blame for the current situation. 


	7. Accusation

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language and evilness by a red shirt (gasp!)  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, suspense  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: OMG . . . I am so, so sorry to keep you guys waiting this long . . . do you still love me? I had a Model Congress to do last week, so I was getting ready for that, and then I had no time when I was there, and now I have a ton of schoolwork to make up because I missed three days of school.  
  
Fortunately for all our sanities, however, this story will probably be over in another chapter or two.  
  
Current vote count: Siler 4, Arnold 2, Jack 2, Sam 1, Daniel 1. Votes for anyone other than Siler and Jack are being ignored for purposes of this story, but may be used later.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
By now extremely angry, Jack stopped just outside Hammond's office, making an effort to calm himself down before having to confront his superior. One thing was for sure, though: when he found out who was responsible for wrecking his office—just when he'd finally straightened it out, too—that person were going to be one very, very sorry individual.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped into the office, and discovered on Hammond's face an expression indicating wrath at least as great as that Jack was currently trying—not very successfully—to hide. Jack hoped that anger wasn't directed at him.  
  
It was.  
  
"Colonel O'Neill," the general said without preamble, "what do you have to say about this?" A thick file folder slid across the desk.  
  
Jack picked up the file, flipped through it, and gulped hard. Hammond had just handed him almost two dozen letters of complaint, each from a different person, and each complaining about him. Specifically, they were all accusing him of having stolen staplers from their desks at some point or another, although this was dysphemistically referred to in most cases as an inhibition of base efficiency.  
  
Flicking briefly through again, to look at the names at the tops of the papers, Jack experienced another tremor of apprehension. Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, Graham Simmons, both Norman and Paul Davis (did Paul even work on base?), Teal'c, and most recently Leon Siler (wow—the guy actually had a first name) . . . this could be a problem.  
  
Because all their staplers (with the possible exception of Paul Davis's) were currently locked in Jack's desk drawer, which was currently locked in his office with a large number of hungry tribbles and a pissed astrophysicist who could probably pick the electronic lock in her sleep.  
  
And Hammond was still staring at him. "Care to explain, Colonel?"  
  
This was not good.  
  
Nevertheless, Jack somehow managed to maintain a relatively serene façade. "Well, General . . ." He searched desperately for something to say, came up with nothing, and chose instead to simply shut up and see if he could ride out the storm.  
  
"I don't exactly hear you denying these accusations, Colonel. And this is a substantial body of evidence against you. Unless you can disprove the charges, I will be forced to ask you to replace the stolen equipment at your own expense. While this is too petty to merit a court martial, further discipline may also be in order."  
  
"Sir," Jack said desperately, "shouldn't we be talking about the large number of tribbles Carter and Teal'c just found in my office?"  
  
"I'm getting to that, Colonel. Bear with me." Hammond folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "But first: did you or did you not take these people's staplers?"  
  
Jack accepted the inevitable: he was sunk. Might as well be honest at this point. "I needed them, sir."  
  
"Like hell you did, Colonel. You have your own stapler. If it didn't work, you could always have requisitioned a new one."  
  
"That's just the problem," Jack pleaded. "Requisitions involve paperwork. I have so much paperwork to deal with that for the past month I haven't even been able to tell whether or not I have a desk. I finally get it all cleared up, and someone lets a swarm of furballs into my office to eat it all."  
  
"Let me get this straight," Hammond sighed. "You were too lazy to do your paperwork on time, so you stole people's staplers so you could make up for that. And now you expect me to look favorably on that?"  
  
Jack shifted uncomfortably. Well, when it was put like that . . . "Um . . . yes, sir, I do."  
  
"Well, too bad." Hammond reached for a piece of paper and began scribbling a memo. "As I've already told you, Colonel, I want you to return all these staplers to their rightful owners."  
  
"Um, sir—" Jack coughed sheepishly. "That might not be possible. I removed all forms of identification from the staplers upon taking possession of them."  
  
"For crying out loud," Hammond muttered; even under the circumstances, Jack had to suppress a snort. "All right, then, I want you to return the staplers to a common storage area and reimburse all these people—" he tapped the folder meaningfully—"accordingly. I also want you to redo the forms which you did this morning but which have been eaten by the tribbles."  
  
"What about the tribbles, sir?" Jack asked hopefully. "Shouldn't we be finding out who put them in my office?"  
  
Hammond gazed at him balefully. "Considering your recent conduct, Colonel, I'd say you were asking for it." Ignoring his second's stunned gape, he continued, "In fact, I think I'll put you in charge of getting Major Carter and Teal'c out of there and disposing of the tribbles. Dismissed."  
  
Jack worked his jaw up and down until he finally managed to squeak out, "But—sir—I really don't think that's fair."  
  
"Nor do I, Colonel." Hammond, unexpectedly, smirked. "But I think it may prove an excellent deterrent in future from procrastination and petty theft." 


	8. Resolution?

TITLE: The Trouble with Jack  
  
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)  
  
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com  
  
RATING: PG for language and evilness by a red shirt (gasp!)  
  
CATEGORY: Humor, suspense  
  
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.  
  
SPOILERS: none  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: You DO still love me! Yay!  
  
I have no idea how the USAF ranking system works. If Siler's skipped a couple of ranks in his journey upward, please tell me and I'll fix it.  
  
Nevertheless, things seem to have *tear* drawn to a conclusion. Sort of. There are, after all, three stories left in this series . . . rampant evilness is lovely.  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
Totally unaware of the chaos erupting around him, Daniel was seated at his desk, deeply engrossed in his work, when the telephone rang. He snatched it up absently, continuing to scribble notes as he spoke. "Hello?"  
  
"Daniel," a tired voice said over the line, "I would really, really love it if you did me a favor."  
  
"Would you now?" Daniel asked suspiciously. "Jack, I'm working here."  
  
"Believe it or not, so am I," Jack snapped. "And I seriously need your help. No joke."  
  
"All right," Daniel sighed. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"  
  
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."  
  
"Jack, just tell me what's going on, okay?"  
  
Daniel could hear Jack's teeth gritting, even over the static on the telephone line. "Siler got hold of a nice big swarm of tribbles, and dumped them in my office, and then locked Carter and Teal'c in there with them. Hammond's decided that I had it coming to me for stealing people's staplers—"  
  
"I knew it!" Daniel interrupted gleefully. "So are you going to give mine back now?"  
  
"Not if you don't help me out here," Jack hissed angrily. "To continue: Hammond's decided I had it coming to me. So now I have to clean up the mess, return all the staplers, and redo all the paperwork the tribbles ate. And Siler's getting promoted."  
  
Daniel stifled a laugh, but managed to keep his voice even. "And what exactly do you want me to do about it?"  
  
"I need you to go on a little field trip down to the storage levels for me and find me some equipment."  
  
"Isn't that Siler's job?" Daniel wondered automatically, and then realized what he'd just said.  
  
"Captain Siler—" Jack choked over the engineer's new rank—"apparently has better things to do with his time. God knows what they are. He said he'd get the things to me 'eventually,' but I strongly suspect he was lying."  
  
"Dammit . . ." Daniel beat his head very quietly against the edge of his desk once or twice, but recognized that unless he did this he had no chance of ever seeing his stapler again. "Fine, I'll do it. What do you need me to get?"  
  
"Not much," Jack assured him dismissively. "Blowtorch, welder's mask, specimen transport cases, maybe a couple of wheelbarrows. And a crane—I know we've got one somewhere."  
  
Daniel's forehead met the desk again: Bam. Bam. "Or I could just get a couple of zats, and you could vaporize them all," he suggested hopefully.  
  
"No zats," Jack informed him desolately. "Hammond was very clear on that point."  
  
-----  
  
Ten minutes later, Jack was waiting impatiently outside his office door. He'd just gotten off the phone with Sam, who had informed him that she and Teal'c were currently following his precedent of standing on the desk and praying. As Jack was trying to decide whether or not this was a compliment, Siler appeared around the corner, dragging a laden equipment cart behind him. "Here's the equipment you wanted, sir."  
  
"Thanks," Jack said, deliberately avoiding addressing Siler by any rank at all.  
  
Mercifully, the engineer simply nodded and disappeared back the way he'd come, although there was a distinct smirk on his face.  
  
Jack yanked the helmet over his head, closing the visor and applying the blowtorch to his office door (dammit, there was a Simpsons dartboard hanging on the other side). His hearing was blocked just in time to miss hearing Captain Leon Siler burst into laughter right around the corner.  
  
-----  
  
Two hours later—an hour and a half after his duty shift would have normally ended—there was nothing left in Jack's office except Jack himself, his very empty desk, a halved Simpsons dartboard, and one tribble.  
  
Jack and the tribble stared at each other for a while.  
  
Or they would have, except that the tribble had no eyes, per se.  
  
But it stared anyway.  
  
"Tell you what," Jack said grimly, breaking the silence. "I don't like you very much. But you knew that. So here's what's going to happen."  
  
He jerked the ventilator shaft open and glanced inside. Just as he'd hoped, there was a branch near the opening that led straight downward. Pretty far down, too, from the looks of it. "Perfect," he gloated.  
  
Jack reached behind him, grabbed the lone tribble, and hurled it down the ventilator shaft. "Take that, furball."  
  
As Jack replaced the grille and dusted his hands off in satisfaction, he suddenly remembered that he'd sent Daniel after equipment that was not longer necessary. And Daniel had not yet reappeared from that expedition.  
  
"Oh, well," Jack shrugged, wondering how much it would cost to get another dartboard. Most likely someone had phoned down to the storage room and told Daniel the errand had been taken care of and he could come back up.  
  
Most likely.  
  
-----  
  
The tribble plummeted down the ventilator shaft and flew out of it again twenty floors down, into a storage room. It landed safely in a convenient cargo net, striking a light switch on the way.  
  
The lights in the room flickered and went out.  
  
"What the—" Daniel, who was already thoroughly lost, looked up in confusion, took a step backwards, and tripped over a newly delivered case of naquadriah.  
  
Daniel sat down hard next to it. "Shit."  
  
Jarred by the impact, the latch on the case clicked open, and the lid jerked upwards a couple of inches. 


End file.
